


Bound

by Sky_kiss



Series: Royal Protector AU [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Dishonored Style AU, F/M, Hot Evil People in Love, It's Very AU ok., Ozai is her Royal Protector, Ursa is Fire Lord, Ursa is a Princess, taboo relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: There are disappearances. At first, they are isolated to the lesser families. Slowly, they spread. One of the magistrates disappears in the night. No one addresses the unifying thread in each of these...abductions.Those foolish enough to speak out against the Crown Princess find themselves vanishing. Alternate universe in which Ursa is the Crown Princess and Ozai serves as her royal protector.





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Finasol's AU tumblr prompt: living in a society where their love is taboo. Obviously, it got away from me a little bit. Hopefully you this...weirdness.

Ursa is forteen when her father insists on her selecting a royal protector. His usual warmth is absent, his tone severe, and she stares at the aged man with wide eyes, searching his features for some sign of poor health. He has not changed since she last saw him. The young woman drops her eyes, speaking carefully. 

“Father. I do not need a protector.” 

His features soften, if only a little, reaching to cup her cheek, “I know what you are thinking, my child; I know you fear the loss of your freedom.” 

“They will be a spy, hounding my every step.”

He nods, “Yes. But you are a princess, Ursa, and that is precious. You must be kept safe.” 

She is too well bred to protest, squaring her jaw, staring out towards the garden. His decree hangs on the air, haunting her long after he’s taken his leave. The next morning, courtiers are lining up outside her quarters. There will be a tourney in her honor. At the end, she will select her guardian. She clings to this knowledge, a lifeline, a single scrap of power. In the end, her verdict is law. 

They present her a list of candidates as though the names mean anything to her. Ursa recognizes only a handful, the sons from noble families around the Fire Nation. She remembers meeting two at royal functions throughout the years. The others are faceless, nothing. Impressive names with impressive pedigrees behind them.

Ursa frowns, dragging the tip of her nail across the bottom of the parchment. 

There is a name near the bottom of the list, added as an afterthought, a concession. There is no family name attached. No title. Ozai, second son of Azulon. He is not from the Capitol City, hailing from one of the islands on the Fire Nation’s borders. A concession, undoubtedly, made to placate the lesser nobles.

The Court has already written him off. 

Ursa repeats his name and finds she likes it better the second time.  
____

Ozai is not like the rest of them.

For one, he is older. He is twenty one and tall, his shoulders broad, his lean figure corded with muscle. She finds her attention lingering on him, cataloging the way he moves. There’s a grace to him, almost feline, his head held at an arrogant angle, self satisfied. Coal dark hair falls to his mid back, too long to pass as fashionable in the Capital City. He is beautiful, his features strong and sharp, his eyes a brilliant shade of gold she has never seen before. 

In another life, he would have been a prince.

In this life, his very presence is a concession. He crosses his arms over his chest, standing away from the other young men, his gaze passing over them with naked derision. He makes no attempt to speak to her. Ursa smiles, making polite conversation where it is expected. Some of the candidates bring her tea, others settle beside her, at her feet, telling her stories of far off lands. They are all polite. They are all qualified. They are all tedious. 

Time and again, she finds herself focusing on a pair of golden eyes.  
____

Her advisors do not let her forget that he is there only to appease the colonies. It is said in a flat tone, as if such a thing should be self evident. She is not to waste her time with him. Ozai remains by himself, dark and brooding, looking woefully out of place. The courtiers eye him over the rim of their glasses, shaking their heads. She knows that look, knows that dismissal. They subject her to much the same. 

They think her a foolish young woman, incapable of making her own decision. 

They have already chosen for her in their minds. Kaito, the elder son of a prominent family. He’s a handsome young man, golden hair and honey colored eyes, deep and too soulful. They call to mind late nights spent in pleasant company, fires and too much wine. A politician through and through. Every word Kaito speaks to her is carefully calculated and silky, pitched to appeal to her supposed sensibilities.

She cannot see the charm. There is nothing honest about him, no real weight behind his gaze. There is only a strange hunger she is too young to understand. A desire for the power she will one day yield and the rank she is capable of granting.

Kaito meets her gaze and holds it, honey eyes full of warmth and false feeling.

Ozai snorts and looks away.  
____

She corners him one night, her curiosity overriding her sense of decorum. Ozai continues his vigil, observing her only briefly as she manifests at his side. His voice is a pleasantly low, chasing a shiver down her spine, “Your handlers are looking for you, princess.” He dips his head towards the center of the room. The courtiers are already combing the crowd. 

Ursa purses her lips, her pride rankling, “This whole affair is demeaning.” 

“Perhaps,” he tips his head towards her. In the firelight, he is achingly beautiful, “Better to be the prize than a dutiful hound, vying for attention.”

“Is that why you haven’t participated?”

Ozai’s lips curl back in a sneer, “Princess. We both know I was brought here with any hope of winning.” The courtiers are nearer. He shifts, the movement so smooth she barely notices the change in their positioning. She is pressed further into the shadows, curling her hands in the dark fabric of his cloak. His bulk disguises her. When he glances down, there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes, his smile wolfish, “I won’t waste my time with a rigged game.” 

“Ah,” she hums. He’s too close to her now. The sickly heat of a firebender radiates off his skin, licking along her own, meshing with the particular scent of him. She blinks to clear her head, feeling the full weight of her youth. Ursa clears her throat, “You’re too proud.” 

“I prefer pragmatic.” 

“Perhaps,” she stares up at him, tracing the lines of his face, his figure. Ozai’s brow furrows, turning just enough to hold her gaze. She finds she likes the note of challenge, that wild spirit, rankled by the circumstances of his birth. “A wise man would play the game anyway, my lord.” 

“And why is that, little princess?” 

She swallows, forcing herself to hold his gaze, “Because the final decision is mine and mine alone.”  
____

The final day of the tourney is dedicated to combat. Some of the candidates demonstrate their martial abilities, some their firebending. They are all passable. It is clear they are not warriors. Every movement seems stilted. They contend with the weight of their blades; they struggle with the more advanced katas. 

Ozai is different. He drops into an exaggerated bow when he enters the ring, his attention fixated on her. She hears her courtiers scandalized whispers, hides a smile behind her hand. One of the other boys steps forward to challenge him. The crowd silences.

He is almost liquid when he moves, the dao swords an extension of his arms, a piece of him. Fire licks along the length of the blade, leaving the material glowing gold, superheated. It’s a ballet, an art, impossible to look away. Her father gapes. Another boy steps up to challenge him. Their bout lasts a matter of seconds. She can feel the heat of his blows from here, unrefined but teeming with raw power. 

Ozai crosses to them, kneeling, “Call your soldiers, Fire Lord. If I am to safeguard your daughter, I would demonstrate my skill beyond this...posturing.” 

She bites her lip to keep from laughing, sees the same wild light reflected in Ozai’s eyes. Her father glances at her, shaking his head. He summons the guard. She watches him move through the fray, fire and steel, and wordless promises. He is dangerous, volatile, capable of fighting, capable of killing. 

Ozai stands tall amidst the carnage.  
____

Ursa presents her choice, resplendent in her ceremonial robes, her face painted. The air is tense with anticipation, a hundred sets of eyes focused solely on her. She takes a vicious pleasure in her decree, her voice clear and strong, lacking any of the uncertainty of youth.

She will take Ozai as her royal protector.

The assembly falls deathly silent. The women, all beautiful and fake, with their painted faces, share furtive glances, whispering amongst themselves. The noblemen stare at her with stiff lips, looking down their noses. It’s as if she has suddenly begun speaking in tongues.

Her father stares, shaking his head but unable to disagree.

The choice of protector is hers and hers alone. She holds out her arm, summoning her guardian from the crowd. Ozai rises, a self satisfied smirk painted across his face. The crowd continue to mutter as he approaches the dias, this second son of a disgraced family. His gaze is fixed squarely on her face. She manages to keep her voice even, “Ozai, will swear yourself to me? A watchful guardian now and ever after?” 

He kneels before her, keeps his eyes on her even as the rest of the crowd bows their heads, “Now and ever after, my princess.” 

She feels the Court’s disapproval and cannot bring herself to care.  
____

There are whispers about the nature of their relationship from the start. 

They will point out that her protector stands too close to her side, a single step behind her when they move, her arm nearly fetched against his. They will speak of the way they whisper to one another, low, as if in conspiracy. By their third year together, she has learned to ignore the gossip. 

Ursa rests her chin in her palm, observing Ozai as he moves through the katas. Watching him train is a relaxing affair. He is an artist in his own right. Despite the courts protests (and they had been vigorous), she had enlisted the aid of firebending master. That he was a descendent of Sozin mattered little to her. As far as she was concerned, that fued had died with their grandfathers. 

In his free time Ozai trains, honing his craft. She always finds him here, his brow furrowed in concentration. He will settle for nothing less than perfection. It shows. He outpaces his Master in a manner of months. The raw strength in his blood is (exhilarating) terrifying. Sweat cuts little rivulets down the muscles planes of his back, his chest. She finds herself tracing their path. 

One day, he takes her aside. Alone, the decorum between them is more relaxed, almost friendly. Ozai never touches her, is fastidiously careful about any contact. She jerks when his fingers curl over her forearm, the heat of his skin threatening to burn her. 

He’s grinning, and there is something terrifying in the expression. She cannot put a name to it. Her mouth feels dry, the lowness of his voice washing over her. He wants to show her something. His strange eyes seem to glow, self satisfied, proud. 

She watches as electricity sparks from the his fingertips, that cold, electric light playing across his face. A thrill chases through her, breath catching in her throat. Ozai is raw power given human form. 

And he is hers to command.  
_____

She is nineteen when her father takes ill. It is not life threatening, not yet, but she feels the shift in the air at Court. More and more often the magistrates come to her, looking for direction. Ursa frowns, linking her hands at the small of her back. Ozai is on her right. When they are alone, he walks beside her.

She pauses, curling her fingers over the balcony railing. It is a summer afternoon, the air warm, humid. There has been no wind for the past week and its leaves the air stagnant, thick. Ursa feels coiled within her own skin. She keeps her voice low, “Our enemies will see this as an opportunity.” 

He nods, inspecting the garden, “There are already whispers.” 

“Among the Earth Kingdom?” 

“Among your court.” 

She scowls. There are some who doubt her competency, who rankle at the idea of a woman leading the Fire Nation. She glances down, turning her hand until it is palm up. She wishes, not for the first time, that she was born a bender. Ursa feels the strength in her blood, a divine right denied to her. She purses her lips, flicking her attention to her guardian, “Are you loyal to me, Ozai?” 

He is her hand, her sword, her flame. Ozai sets his hand over hers, palm up. Fire jumps to life in his touch. It does not burn her, even as her finger thread through his, “Now and ever after, little princess.” 

They continue their walk in silence.  
_____

There are whispers. 

That summer, as her father’s health fades, the Crown Princess’ protector is largely absent. A few nobles laugh amongst themselves. It is for the best. If their beloved lady is ever to find a suitor (and it is a dire necessity now), she needs a reprieve from her second shadow. There is charged quality to the air, however, a nervousness. 

There are disappearances. At first, they are isolated to the lesser families. Slowly, they spread. One of the magistrates disappears in the night, no sign of entry, no struggle. It’s as if a spirit plucked the man from his bed. No one speaks of his death. No one addresses the unifying thread in each of these...abductions. 

Those foolish enough to speak out against the Crown Princess find themselves vanishing. 

Eventually, the whispers stop.  
_____

She is crowned Fire Lord at twenty one. It is a somber occasion. She does not allow herself to cry, even as she kneels, no more the twenty feet from her father’s pyre. The Sages crown her, burying the royal headpiece in her top knot. The assembled crowd bows before her. 

Ozai kneels, positioned at the foot of the stairs alongside the rest of the retinue. It is his gaze she finds first, and he frowns, brow furrowing in question. She shakes her head, makes a small gesture with her hand. She will be fine. He nods in acceptance. 

That night, alone in her new chambers, she allows herself to weep. 

It does not surprise her when Ozai seemingly manifests out of the shadow. After so many years they exist as an extension of one another. She buries her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him. He has the decency to remain silent, holding her until the worst of her grief has passed.  
______

Ozai is her blade and he is her voice. 

Her courtiers are wise enough not to comment when she dispatches him in her stead. On the matters she deems most important, his presence is a foregone conclusion. When there is unrest, she dispatches her protector. One way or another, by politics or by flame, he sees the issue handled. 

No one questions his presence behind her in the throne room. 

The flames in front of Fire Lord Ursa burn higher than any before them. Ozai makes sure of this.  
______

She is twenty three when the dynamic of their relationship shifts. It is late, well after midnight, and she is alone. Ursa paces the length of her chambers, bare feet padding across the cool tile. Her dark hair is loose, hanging to the small of her back, thrashing behind her when she moves. 

He has not returned. He was due back that morning. 

The Fire Lord does not allow herself to panic. It would be suited to her station. But something ugly coils low in her belly, anxious. An insidious voice whispers in the back of her head: what if he’s been caught. What if he never returns. 

She shoves the thought away, violent, adamant. He is not allowed to die. He is sworn to her. He will return and if he does not then she will scour the countryside until she finds him. Ursa catches her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is wild. Her eyes are wild. 

The latch on her window clicks open, nearly soundless. She catches it only because Ozai has drilled that almost preternatural awareness into her, has forced her to remain aware of her surroundings. The woman balls her fists. She does not hear his feet touch the floor. 

She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest, “You’re late.” 

Ozai chuckles, the warm sound licking along her spine. He moves until he’s only a step behind her, the heat of his body radiating across the scant distance. “I was delayed.” She turns, one brow arched. Blood is caked across his hands, up and over his wrists. He smirks, “Demanding woman.”

She rolls her eyes, dragging one hand through her hair, “You’re a mess.” 

“My apologies. Some men aren’t polite enough to die cleanly.”

Ursa snorts. It’s a harsh sound, unsuited to her position, a holdover from her childhood, “The sacrifices you make for the throne.” The right corner of his lips quirks up in his closest approximation of a smile. It is a rare sight, more beautiful for it. She looks away, “It’s good to have you home, Ozai. It’s been...lonely, without you by my side.” 

It tastes like a confession, cloying, weak. For once, he does not posture. There’s very little of his trademark arrogance. Perhaps he’s still tired from his travels. He takes her hand, turning it until it rests over his own, palm up, “If it pleases the Fire Lord, perhaps my stay in the Capitol will be extended.” 

He squeezes her hand, bowing his head before taking his leave. It’s only later that she notices he’s left streaks of blood across her hand. She scrubs her skin until it’s raw. The blood is gone but the feel of him remains.  
_____

She summons him to her chambers knowing precisely what she intends. Their union is an impossibility in more ways than one. He is a descendent of Sozin (her father’s words ring in his head: that cursed bloodline can never assume the throne again). He is her protector. He is beneath her. 

Every excuse rings hollow. The court will not whisper. Not anymore. Not with Ozai behind her. 

She wants him more than she has ever wanted anything, love and lust bleeding into one heady mixture. Ozai’s eyes rake over her, dragonscale gold. He turns, closing the door, locking it. Her last opportunity to run vanishes. 

She doesn’t want to. Ursa fists a hand the front of his robe, crashing into him. His hands tangle in the mass of her hair, tongue pushing past the seam of her lips, demanding entrance. He clutches her to him, grip bruising. She feels a wild surge of power. They have functioned as an extension of each other for years and now, finally, they will be whole. Ursa sucks his lower lip between her teeth, revelling in his low groan. 

His hand is in her robe, cupping her breast, rolling the nipple to a hard peak. Ozai ducks his head, dragging his lips across her sternum, his voice a low, rumbling growl, “Mine.” She lets out a hiss of breath, nails digging into his shoulder as he takes her in his mouth, scraping his teeth over the sensitive bud. He sucks at her skin hard enough to hurt, to mark her, a vibrant purple safely hidden beneath her robes. 

She nods, breathy, “Always.” she pushes him away, fumbling with his clothes. She wants to feel him, needs him pressed against her so tightly it’s difficult to breathe. She hears the fabric rip (and his echoing chuckle), pushing the robe from his shoulders. She’s seen his naked torso too many times to count over the course of the years. This is different. He is hers, to touch, to taste. She rakes her nails down his abdomen, smirking when his eyes lull shut, “And you, Ozai? Are you loyal to me?”

He nips at the underside of her jaw, walking her back towards the bed, “Now and ever after.” 

He is her sword, her voice, her heart. When she comes, when he is lying over her, spent, they are finally whole.  
_____

Fire Lady Ursa never marries. 

The Court does not question her decision. They do not whisper when Crown Prince Zuko is born, or when his sister, the Princess Azula, follows. Both her children are blessed with Ozai’s eyes, brilliant, gold, wild. They are heirs of fire and it answers their call. Azula is a prodigy. For Zuko it is a slower process, embers banked low before roaring to life. 

They are beautiful, children of dragons, and the Court never mentions the way they trail after the royal protector. They do not mention that their sketches, those childish renditions of their family, always feature Ozai, crowned beside their mother. 

Some questions, they conclude, are best left unanswered.


End file.
